PROPERTY OF THE VAULT

Chapter 3: The Two Proprietors

Chapter Three: The Two Proprietors

She pulls up to the club exactly five minutes before 7:00 PM. She remembered her father always used to preach that if you're not early, you're late, and today, she was later to the ruin of her future than to any mere appointment. This wasn't the ideal first impression for the men to whom she owed $75,000. A desperate part of her still wondered if they could even legally pursue the debt. She had meticulously checked his bank statements against the invoice; the amounts, sickeningly, matched up. This was no scam; it was frighteningly legit. If it was real, did she have a leg to stand on? Could she call the police, given she hadn't agreed to any of this? How could her father, the person she trusted most in this world, have saddled her with such an impossible burden?

Eden was abruptly pulled out of her frantic train of thought as she approached the downtown building. She parked her modest Toyota Corolla in the back alley lot, the vehicle immediately looking like an abandoned toy among the blacked-out luxury sedans and SUVs. She had to concede that Damon and Cain had done a meticulous job renovating the old bank. The exterior was cloaked in dark, seamless granite, accented only by polished bronze hardware. The building was, of course, unmarked and intimidatingly dark.

She pushed the heavy oak door. It groaned open, revealing everything she was not and everything she resented. The interior was draped in rich velvet and supple leather. Gold and bronze accents glittered softly in the dim, deliberate lighting. The air was thick with the suffocating scent of aged whiskey and expensive, new leather.

She immediately pivoted to leave, but caught a glimpse of the shark, Henry, posted near the entrance. The memory of his threat—They aren't patient in any regard—froze her retreat. Her simple black V-neck and bell-bottom ripped jeans felt like a cheap, embarrassing uniform in this palace of excess. What secrets are housed here? she wondered, struck by the intense secrecy.

Henry was immediately on the move, his huge, indifferent form of a dark shadow gliding across the floor. Guess there’s no backing out now, she thought. Is there time to sprint to the Corolla and call 911? The fear was a physical chokehold, leaving her motionless and starting to sweat. She silently lamented not applying more deodorant.

​Henry was cunningly swift. He ushered her left, down a dark hallway. The passage, though recently remodeled, felt oppressive, like a tomb meant for holding secrets. The knot in her stomach tightened, a painful anchor of anxiety. All Eden truly desired was to go home, curl up in her chair, and read a book with a blanket. Instead, she was here, settling a debt her father had secretly arranged. What would Veronica think if I suddenly vanished? she worried. She bitterly regretted not texting her friend the address or giving a clear explanation of her predicament.

Henry continued to shepherd her down the passage. The unwelcome weight of the man’s heavy fingers resting in the middle of her back made her nauseous. She tried to ignore the awkward proximity as he chauffeured her into a room at the end of the hall. The door, unassuming on the outside, opened into a private lounge area. Is this where they conduct their illegal business? Are there strippers, or is this where the underground fighting happens? Eden's mind raced, trying to find a logical explanation for the opulence and secrecy.

That's when she saw them.

​The man with dirty blonde hair, striking blue eyes, and a sharp, aristocratic jaw sat casually, a portrait of polished refinement. The other man was slightly taller, his sheer size and brooding intensity dominating the room’s atmosphere. He was physically so imposing Eden's gut churned violently. Cain's silent, unblinking scrutiny immediately made her regret not bringing a friend or having a backup plan.

Cain never took his eyes off Eden; it was as though he was watching a fox, expecting her to try something sly. She wished the floor would open up and swallow her whole.

Eden figured her only option was to beg. Surely, somewhere beneath the polished exterior, they possessed a sliver of humanity. She needed a payment plan; that was the only reasonable solution. But underground debt holders were rarely reasonable.

​“Gentlemen, I'm here as you requested, and I just want to be clear—I just found out about this debt, and I do want to make a heartfelt apology directly to you for what my father has done. I had no idea the extent of his medical debt; he never once mentioned it. But I promise I'll pay it back. I can pick up extra shifts at night. And maybe... a payment plan?”

Eden was quickly cut off by the blonde man. “Well, it's nice to meet you, Miss Ames. Since you seem to care very little about who you are indebted to, I'll have you know my name is Damon, and this is Cain.”

Cain made no effort to acknowledge her plea. He just continued his intense stare. Eden squirmed, and Damon motioned for her to take a seat on the couch in front of him. What she didn't understand was how he remained so calm, utterly unbothered by the gravity of the sum he was owed. That's just Oak Brook, she thought, disgusted. No one around here had any regard for money.

Worse than the money was the calculated cruelty of this meeting, forced upon her hours after her father's death. Vultures. Evil and disgusting.

​“We realize the balance your father borrowed from us is significant,” Damon continued, his voice smooth and steady. “But he was so sure the treatments would work, and he'd be able to pay us back. As we can all see, that didn't work out too well for him. But we're hopeful it'll work out for you.”

She shivered with hatred and fresh grief. “How could you be so cruel? Don't mention my father. He was ten times the man you'll ever be,” Eden growled, her voice thick with emotion.

​“Oh, stop you right there, Miss Ames,” Cain chimed in, a low, unsettling rumble. “We are not debt collectors. We are collectors of beauty and time. And as for your father, he was not the man you think he was. You see, he offered collateral in case anything were to happen to him, collateral we were all too excited to collect. His collateral was far more enticing than cash, so how could we refuse?” Cain laughed—a short, dark sound—but Eden was still confused, reeling from what he had just said.

​“Are you talking about my father's house?” Eden demanded. “I can't sell it. You can't have it. I'll make sure I pay you. You'll get your money, I promise,” she stuttered, desperation coloring her tone.

Damon leaned forward, his blue eyes sharp and assessing. “Oh, darling Miss Ames, I thought we were clear. It wasn't cash. Your dad offered us his collateral. It was you.” He paused, letting the word sink in. “You see, some of our clients have very particular tastes, and you may just so happen to fit that bill.”

​“What are you saying?” Eden demanded. “Are you suggesting I become a stripper for you? You're f*****g crazy if you think I would consider it for a second.”

​“You don't have a choice. You will work for us, or we'll pass you over to Henry.” Damon gestured toward the door, where the shark was still standing, now leaning against the frame. Eden turned around and looked at him. He gave her a cold, menacing glance and turned away, bored with her situation.

She looked back to the two devilishly handsome men. Damon continued to explain that she’ll work in the speakeasy downstairs as a bartender to start.

​“I've never been a bartender. I've only ever been a waitress. My work doesn't even sell alcohol, I would have no idea what to do. You should set me up with a payment plan and let me be on my way,” Eden argued.

​“As we said before, we have some clients with particular tastes…” Damon trailed off, picking up a beautiful, ornate cocktail shaker from the table. “And you are now collateral. That means your debt must be serviced on our terms.” He slid the contract—a single page of heavy, cream parchment—across the table.

Eden signed the document, her hand shaking so badly she could barely hold the pen. The signature was messy, a symbolic ruin of her life.

Damon smiled, a slow, predatory expression. "Excellent. Your shift starts now. Cain will show you the bar. And since you’re already behind on your education, let’s start with a classic. Make me a Sazerac, Eden.”

Eden felt bile rise in her throat. "A Saz—a what? I don’t know how to make that! I serve coffee and pie!”

Cain stepped forward, his body heat radiating off her. He was suddenly too close, eclipsing the light from the side lamps. The sheer proximity of him made her legs lock. He picked up a bottle of rye whiskey and placed it heavily on the bar, the sound sharp and demanding.

​“Rye, Absinthe, Peychaud’s Bitters, and a sugar cube,” Cain said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through her, sounding like an inescapable order. “You’ll learn. Now, go on.”

Eden fumbled for a sugar cube, her fingers clumsy and slick with sweat. She tried to measure the rye, but her hand jerked, spilling a dark splash onto the polished wood of the bar. She stared at the mistake, humiliated, paralyzed.

Cain sighed, a sound of heavy, immediate disappointment. He reached over her shoulder, his arm brushing her neck, and his large, calloused hand wrapped around her small, trembling one, forcing the shot glass steady. He guided her hand back to the bottle, tilting it perfectly.

​“Control your tremor, Eden,” he murmured, his breath a cool stream near her ear. “Every drop wasted is time added to your debt.” He didn’t release her hand, instead using the shared grip on the measuring cup to pull her back against his rigid body, pinning her between the cold mahogany and his suffocating warmth. Damon watched, a faint smirk playing on his lips.

Cain then slowly guided her through the steps, his chest a solid wall against her back, his chin resting near her shoulder as he spoke the directions in a low, instructional tone. He was teaching her, correcting her, but with an intimacy that felt entirely possessive, entirely wrong. When the drink was finally poured, he released her, stepping back to let Damon approach.

Damon took the glass, his eyes never leaving Eden’s face. He swirled the amber liquid, took a slow sip, and set the glass down.

Eden stared at the damp spot where the gin had splashed. She heard Damon’s low voice behind her, cool and final.

​“You're going to make a lot of mistakes, Eden. But don't worry,” he said, his breath warm against the back of her neck as he reached around her to set the shaker down. “We have all the time in the world to teach you how to be ours.”